


Easy If You Let It

by homsantoft (tofsla)



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-08
Updated: 2016-04-08
Packaged: 2018-06-01 01:20:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6495226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tofsla/pseuds/homsantoft
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>It's one of Dorian's favourite things, the wanting. The wanting that comes in the exact moment before it happens, knowing it's coming.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Easy If You Let It

**Author's Note:**

> Zythepsary prompted: "things you said with no space between us."

It is a drink, and then another. It is the Bull's great scarred hand lifting Dorian's cup to drain it against Dorian's sputtering protests. Heat to Dorian's cheeks. Heat to all of him. It is the Bull grinning apology, pouring a replacement. A new cup for himself as well.

It is a thought: the Bull's lips were right here. A tipping point, he knows; the heat that spreads through him tells its story.

Dorian swallows too fast. Does he taste the Bull's mouth? Does he only imagine how it might taste with enough guilty want to convince himself?

"I think," he says, tilting his head back and closing his eyes to let the tavern lanterns shift the tone of the momentary darkness, to let himself roll his words around on his tongue, feel the weight of them. "I've had quite enough for the night. Alcohol, I mean."

"Oh, really," the Bull says. "What haven't you had enough of, then?"

Objectively, a terrible line; the delivery, worse. Dorian need not look to know that the Bull is leering. The intonation is enough. Well, to be fair—the Bull's personality would be enough.

This, though, is Dorian's weakness: that even if he can of necessity play the sophisticate at fine parties, play the usual game of subtle hints and quiet if suitably sordid liaisons, he has always had a fondness for—well, call it the lowbrow. A damning enough word, but perhaps the mildest.

"Not your trousers, certainly," he says.

"Aw, come on," the Bull says. "That wasn't even a good one. You saving all your best insults for Sera? Holding out on me?"

"Don't I always?" Dorian says, looks up at the Bull, further up.

"I don't know, Dorian," the Bull says. "I'm getting some mixed signals here."

And oh: it is a simple thing, to hook a finger below the Bull's harness, to pull him down close. Not a kiss, not quite. The suggestion of a kiss. A kiss in potentia. 

"Take me somewhere private," Dorian says, "and I might be persuaded to clarify."

The Bull's room is built back from the tavern into the heavy wall of the fortress, cool and dim with the weight of the stone around it, small and a little cluttered. The window is no more than a slit for arrows—although who they would fire upon from here, angled away from the main bridge, Dorian cannot imagine. Does not particularly have much time to imagine, nor a terribly strong inclination, given the circumstances.

This kiss is not a potentiality; no shadow or play. 

It is the thing itself.

It is to be held and explored in a way that one did not believe one still wanted.

Oh, how Dorian wants it. Wants it desperately even as it happens, as though his mind cannot hold the reality of it, for all that he himself initiated it. 

Weak-kneed against the soft hangings that cover the walls, the Bull above him. A hand on his jaw to angle his head, and it is as well—doubtful that he would have remembered to do it himself.

"Damn," the Bull breathes. The slight parting of his lips is fascinating. The dampness of them. "That good? You want this?"

How dizzy desire can make a person.

It's one of Dorian's favourite things, the wanting. The wanting that comes in the exact moment before it happens, knowing it's coming.

He allows himself a moment to hold it.

Reaches, finally, for the Bull. Only a fingertip, drawn down his ludicrous broad chest.

"I want rather more than that, I think you'll find," Dorian says. "I'm known to be terribly demanding."

The Bull laughs. Oh, a bit breathily—and it certainly is good to know that he is not impassive, not immune to Dorian's many pleasing virtues and the more interesting of his vices. As a fantasy, being meticulously taken apart by someone who remains entirely unmoved has its points; yes, he has pictured it in his mind, that terrible and all too interesting remark about being conquered. In practice, he very much enjoys knowing he's having an effect.

Call it vanity.

"I'm glad you find me amusing," he says; gasps pleasantly as the Bull jerks him forward for a second kiss, arms around him, full body contact for the first time—disappointingly clothed as it is.

Little enough time before that changes.

How is it? Oh, indescribable. The Bull's great bulk against him, the press of his substantial cock against Dorian's stomach. A harsh hand on his neck and an achingly sweet kiss. 

His knees will not soon forgive him for the fact that they eventually fuck for the first time on the floor when a perfectly good bed exists barely an arm's-length away—close enough, even, for Dorian to clutch at the frame for steadiness. 

The debris of everyday life, scattered from the desk on their way down, lies unattended.

The Bull, pushed up on one hand to be closer. The Bull's fingers twist ruthlessly inside him. Why stifle one's cries? Someone is always moaning in the Bull's room, he has been given to understand. Heard, once or twice.

A peculiar feeling. To have that thought in one's mind? To be unrestrained?

Both.

The Bull's fingers curl.

Dorian's head bows forward, his breath shuddering from him.

His nails dig sharply into wood. Later, later—later it will be the Bull's skin, perhaps.

Maker willing.

He makes the Bull shudder too, at least, with the slow roll of his hips, the grind of their cocks; presses his advantage with a hand teasing at the Bull, fingers dragging across the head of his cock, pulling in a long twist up the shaft; tangling in the thick coarse hair between the Bull's legs.

It is, this first time, this alone—only hands. Harsh breaths. How is it to come apart? A hot desperate thing.

Oh, oh, it is—

It is only a beginning. 

A beginning to what?

"Come on," the Bull groans, once they've worked their way through all the lingering tremors of the thing, nudging at him. "Up on the bed. Going to kill my back."

The thought of argument hardly exists in Dorian's mind.

Later, a second time, Dorian stretched out on his stomach. The Bull moves deep and unhurried inside him. Kisses to the nape of Dorian's neck, to the soft skin below his ear. The underside of his jaw.

When Dorian turns his head, the Bull kisses him messily on the corner of his mouth.

It is a slow build, wave on wave, until finally they are carried away.

The Bull consents to be held, after; breathes and breathes against Dorian's chest, Dorian's hands stroking his back, his neck, the curve of his great skull. No space at all between them now.

"Goodness," Dorian murmurs, kisses the Bull's head between his horns, a lax gesture. "Don't tell me I've worn you out."

"Hey," the Bull says, without moving, "don't see you rushing to move."

"And how could I, with your ridiculous weight on me?"

"You like it," the Bull says, laughter in his tone.

Dorian breathes a sigh, not dissatisfied. "I very much do not," he says, because he can think of nothing else that isn't terrifyingly definite. "You oaf, you'll be suggesting I might actually care for your company next."

"Dorian," the Bull says, more serious—how quickly he shifts. "Don't overthink it. We're good."

Dorian's turn to laugh, if a little uneasily. Are they? His record on the point of friendly sex is less than perfect. And it is so easy to feel—

Never mind it. They are friends, after all. Despite all.

"I wouldn't go that far," Dorian murmurs, against the Bull's skin; hears the terrible soft intimacy of the words as he says them. "Between your atrocious dress and my apparently lamentable taste."

"Oh, well, if it's like that," the Bull says, and shifts his weight until he can kiss Dorian, lingeringly, on the lips.

It is this: they drank and they fucked and they had a quite excellent time.

It is no more. Surely, surely, it is no more than that.


End file.
